


A Catalogue of Wounds

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Facials, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, Reconciliation, Reference to death of a child and divorce, Romance, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He missed Sherlock so much that every part of him ached. Even having him here right now only eased the hurt; it didn’t banish it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Catalogue of Wounds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CowMow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CowMow/gifts).



> Thanks to titledsyllogism and interrosand for all the feedback and cheerleading on this fic.

 

 “In a sense, there is no such thing as healing. From paper cuts to surgical scars, our bodies are catalogues of wounds:

imperfectly locked doors quietly waiting, sooner or later, to spring back open.” -- Geoff Manaugh

 

The dawn greeted John's tired eyes. Grey light slowly worked its way past the curtains, drawing a watery line across the ceiling. He watched that line. It bisected the room, not a clean break, but a wavering divide that cut across his shoulder, down his soft stomach. Sherlock rested completely on one side, the angles of his face still drowned in darkness. John tried to match his breathing to Sherlock’s, slow and steady, until Sherlock’s eyes slowly opened.

He stared at Jonn, eyes flicking across his face, surely noting the dark circles, the stubble. In the grey light, he stretched out across the bright line and ran his hand down John’s front. When his hand slid under the sheet, John closed his eyes and bit his lip. Sherlock’s fingers rested, hesitating, for a moment on John’s hip before finally coming to rest on his cock.

John huffed out a slow, hard breath through his nose, as Sherlock’s hand began to move. He felt Sherlock shift on the bed, his hand moving in familiar patterns around him. John focused on that, on the way Sherlock knew his body better than any other lover he had ever had, let his hips rock up to meet each stroke. Sherlock pulled the sheet away and, behind his closed eyes, John could feel Sherlock’s eyes tracing the ragged scar on his shoulder, the soft line of belly, the jut of his hip, the growing tightness of his skin.

He was thankful when Sherlock’s weight finally settled on top of him because he could no longer feel Sherlock studying him, marking him, and filing him away in his memory for later contemplation. He buried his head against Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock settled between his legs, his cock already hard against John’s thigh. John breathed.

It was quiet save the steady, tired rhythm of springs creaking. He squeezed his eyes tight and tighter still, not letting his mind wander past this moment. His fingers dug into Sherlock’s back and he lost himself in the feel of sweat and skin. John inhaled sharply, filling his nose with Sherlock’s scent, and gave a perfunctory grunt just before coming. Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, his hips bucking hard, urged on by the slickness now coating John’s stomach, before stilling. He rested heavily across John a moment before rolling off and away, leaving him to his study of the pale light that divided the room. He didn’t return.

  
Maybe even then they had known they had run out of time.

* * *

  
And then Sherlock was gone, truly gone.

  
And so was John, cut adrift.

 

* * *

 

Overhead, the tinny and forcefully cheerful sound of holiday music piped through the PA system, occasionally punctuated by announcements for clean ups and additional help on registers. God, John hated this time of year.

A shopping cart smacked into the back of his legs as yet another harried holiday shopper attempted to maneuver around him. He barely kept a curse in check and pressed his chest closer to the shelf. Any closer and he would be scaling the damned thing. The woman and her screaming train of children scurried past and John took that as his cue to get out of the store. He shoved a can of beans into his basket and charged down the aisle. If he straightened his shoulders enough and kept his head down just the right way,he had found people had a tendency to just move out of his path. What he lacked in height, he made up for in sheer stubbornness. He turned a corner sharply and plowed right into another person.

“Oh for heaven’s-- John.”

John stopped short. His own curse froze on his tongue. In front of him stood Sherlock, his own basket full of odds and ends. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock straightened his scarf and looked away. An awkward silence fell between them. “It’s good. Seeing you. That is.” He cleared his throat. John had always hated when Sherlock played at pleasantries, and being on the receiving end of it was all the worse. It had never suited him. Sherlock wasn’t made for pleasantries.

“Yeah, you look good.” John nodded, berating himself already for appearing too enthusiastic. God, he sounded lonely and desperate even to his own ears. “I mean, I saw your recent case in the papers. Well done.” Christ, what he wouldn’t have given to have been there.

Sherlock gave a tentative smile. “Thank you. Are you still working at that one clinic?” He gestured, the name obviously slipping his mind.

“No. Um, left there two years ago. Doing a bit of teaching now.”

“Ah. John, about the funeral.”

“Don’t.” The word leapt from his tongue, angry and sharp. He pressed his lips together and tightened his grip on his basket. “Just don’t. It was two years ago and I didn’t expect you to-- just.” He paused, unable continue that line of thought. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but little had been in his life recently.

“Of course. Apologies.” Sherlock carefully studied the spot in front of John’s shoes. When next he spoke, it came out in a rush. “John, I was wondering if perhaps--”

“Stop blocking the bloody aisle!” A red faced man shoved his way past Sherlock and insinuated himself in between the two of them.

John huffed and ducked past him. “You were saying?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing. It was good to see you.” With that, he turned on his heel and marched quickly away from John. Soon he disappeared into the crowd.

Sherlock’s parting expression carried John through the queue and back to his house. He stood in the empty foyer, bag dragging down his shoulder, and tried to ignore the quiet that filled his empty rooms. The too-clean living room looked too much like a facade trying to cover a life barren of meaning and the empty hook next to his coat too much like an accusation.

“Damn.” He shoved his bag into the fridge, not caring if half the things didn’t need to be kept cold, and pulled out his mobile.

 

* * *

 

“This all right, then?”

John jerked his head up and peered through the window. Through the gloom, the familiar sight of 221b was just barely visible up ahead. Snow, barely enough to call a flurry, still had the drivers of London on high alert. The cars uphead moved at a snail’s pace, their drivers eager to be out of the weather before it turned worse but hesitant to speed along the streets. Unwilling to be caught in the mess, the cabbie had pulled into a side street. He now drummed his fingers on his steering wheel and raised an eyebrow at John in the mirror.

“Yeah, yeah. This is fine.” John fumbled for a moment with his wallet, then scooped up the bag sitting next to him. “Keep the change.”

“Happy Christmas.”

John nodded absentmindedly, the ghost of old feelings already whirling around the heavy lump sitting in his stomach. He didn’t know the name of it yet, but it felt a little too much like dread, like uncertainty, like cowardice, for his liking. He ducked out of the cab and clutched the plastic takeaway bag in his fist, letting it bite into his skin. He barely heard the cab pull away or felt the snow gathering on his eyelashes.

Five years. It had been five years since he had last dropped by the flat. (His mind stuttered for a moment, nearly calling it _their_ flat, but it hadn’t been theirs in quite some time.) He never thought there would be a time when he wasn’t talking to Sherlock nearly every day, even if it had just been in text form. But then there had been Mary. And then Lucy, whose name even now made his chest ache. For awhile, his life was consumed with midnight feedings and slammed doors, doctor visits and too many bills, angry silences and tentative touches. He was a man of glass and each day he felt a new fracture.

He straightened his shoulders, shaking off the memory of Mary’s face as she packed up the last of her things. Boxes had lined their hallway for days, like soldiers ready for their marching orders, and he, no longer in command, no longer in control, ignored them. He woke groggy and aching one morning to find all the boxes gone. All sign of Mary vanished in the night and he was suddenly alone with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

He forced his feet forward. The crunch of his boots on the pavement drowned out the silence of an empty nursery that still echoed in his head. He could no longer float like a ghost from room to room, a spectre of missed moments and painful regrets. Spectres and snow. Regret and forgiveness.

 _‘Tis the season_ , he thought.

Even after all this time, he still carried the keys to 221b in his pocket. Before Sherlock had come back, he had kept them as a talisman, something to cling to on those days when he missed Sherlock so much it felt like his chest was nothing more than a deep abscess, a wound that never healed, but festered. Once things had settled after Sherlock’s return, John had tried to give them back. Sherlock had ignored his attempts, even going so far as to mail them back or slip them through the mail-slot on his door. No words were exchanged, just the quiet reminder that John still had a connection to 221b.

He was grateful for that connection now. The keys, warm from being in his pocket, felt a bit like Sherlock’s hand in his. It was a reassuring weight that even managed to bridge months of silence. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the key, his feet now frozen to the stoop, not with cold, but with uncertainty. Did Sherlock even want to see him? John flinched at the words they had exchanged earlier. _Read about you in the papers._ They had been words for a stranger, an acquaintance, not for a man who had once been everything in John’s life. Sherlock had nodded, a half-smile tucked into the corners of his mouth, and had played along and even as John played it back in his mind, he winced at how hateful the whole thing had been. John held no illusions that their distance was anything other than his own fault.

He slid his key into the door, only to have the door open suddenly with a flurry and a resounding smack as it hit the hallway wall. Sherlock stepped out onto the stoop, coat half on, only becoming aware of John standing on his doorstep at the last moment.

“Where’s the crime scene?” John let out a small laugh. His attempt at hiding his nervousness was in vain; the tell-tale spread of red warmed his cheeks despite the cold.

“John.” Sherlock’s mouth hung open for a moment longer, then shut with a snap. With a quick jerk, he shrugged his coat up onto his shoulders and popped the collar.

They stood for a moment in the snow, both drinking in the sight of one another. How had John not noticed the new lines around Sherlock’s eyes or the softness that hung around his mouth like a smile ready to bloom? Each sign that Sherlock was a different man was highlighted in the golden light thrown from the street lamp nearby. Gone was the sharpness of youth, the haughtiness of a cold sharpened intellect. He was still Sherlock-- of course he was. But the brilliant and distant man of his memory, the one that deserted him at crime scenes and lashed out at anyone that attempted to give him a bit of kindness, was gone. In his place was a man who had lived through so much while John wasn’t looking and it had left marks on him. John swallowed hard. He didn’t fully know this Sherlock, but god, he wanted to.

“John, was there something you wanted?”

“Oh, right.” John held up the bag in his hand, nearly forgotten until just now. “I thought. Well, it being Christmas. I didn’t know-- Stupid, of course. Should have known you’d have something on.” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Should he have called? No, Sherlock hated to talk on the phone. Or at least he had. John’s gut tightened at the thought that he didn’t even know if that little fact was still true about Sherlock.

“No. I was just about to step out for a bit. Needed some air. Mrs Hudson has been on and on about something. Haven’t the faintest idea what.” He patted his pockets for a moment before victoriously pulling out a much abused pack of cigarettes. He frowned when his tapping provided nothing from the pack and in retribution, he crushed it in his fist.

“Ah well, that’s good. That you aren’t going anywhere.” John thrust the plastic bag into the space between them. His tongue felt clumsy in his mouth and he swallowed the urge to babble. “Hungry?”

Something unreadable crossed Sherlock’s features. It flitted past for but a moment, crinkling his eyes and twitching the corners of his mouth, before vanishing. He nodded once. “Starving.” With that, he stepped out of the way, opened the door, and gestured John into the building.

Holiday music blared from Mrs Hudson’s living room and the smell of too much cinnamon and cloves tickled his nose. The hallway was welcoming and warm after standing out in the cold and if John just squinted his eyes a bit, he could pretend that nothing had changed in the past five years. The wallpaper was different and a table had been moved next to the door, but it still, even after all this time, felt like home.

Sherlock shut the door behind him and bustled past John. He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, as if he were nothing more than an eager schoolboy. John followed, nervousness giving away to a strange sort of giddiness. This was Sherlock. From the moment they had met, John felt like he was on the brink of a sprint, a mad dash with his blood surging away in his ears and his heart dancing in his chest.

Ahead of him, Sherlock tossed his coat carelessly onto the sofa and spun off towards the kitchen. Just over the din echoing in his ears, John heard Sherlock mutter about plates and utensils. John set the bag of food on the table. “I wasn’t sure if you still liked Pad Thai or not, so I got a bit of everything.”

Sherlock spun on his heel and slammed a plate down. Leaning forward on his knuckles, he stared at the kitchen tabletop. His lips pressed into a thin line. From this angle, John watched Sherlock shake his head.

“John, why are you here?”

“I thought that was obvious.” He gestured at the takeout bag once more.

“No, why are you here _now_?” Sherlock met his gaze. “It’s been years, John. The occasional Christmas card. A phone call on my birthday.” He touched his top lip with his tongue and his eyes raked down John’s body. “It’s obviously not guilt. Pity? I will not be pitied by you.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I will not be pitied by you of all people.”

“Think I’m probably the pitiful one here.” John let off a humourless laugh. “And you are right, it’s not guilt.”

“Then what? What could possibly bring you here after years of not talking?”

“Because I,” John swallowed and clenched his fist. “I missed you. All right? There. I missed you. I am a pathetic middle aged man--Christ, I’m almost fifty." He shook his head. "I’m a failure of a husband and. . .” His jaw snapped shut. Words caught just behind his teeth battled to be heard. He couldn’t say it: how it had felt to have his years of training as a doctor fail him utterly, how it felt to be helpless in the face of such despair, how the past year had been ugly, empty, and alone. He breathed hard out of his nose. Sherlock continued to stare at him, not giving him a chance to look away. He was pinned, open for Sherlock’s dissection. Terrible. Wonderful.

John smacked his fist against the table. When he managed to summon the words he needed, his voice came out a strangled whisper. “And all I could think of was how it was never quiet here. How you took up the entire flat with your noise and your presence and I never felt as at home anywhere else as I did in the years we spent together. And I am sure that wanting it again makes me a horrible person after everything that’s happened, but Christ, I do. So, there.” John turned his face away from Sherlock’s inspection and clenched his fists to keep from rubbing at his eyes.

A cautious hand slid across the nape of John’s neck and pulled him close. His muscles slowly unwound as Sherlock traced his fingers along the back of John's neck. They stood breathing in each other’s space, frozen, and then Sherlock ducked his head down in order to meet his gaze. “No, John. You filled this space. In all the cracks and nooks and crevices, you marked it as your own and your absence has made the foundation all the weaker. And if that makes you a horrible person, then so am I, but I think we both know that by now.”

“No, you’re not, you. . .”

Sherlock brushed a thumb across John’s mouth, silencing John’s stutter in its tracks. John shivered at the caress of Sherlock’s touch as it traveled along his jaw and across his stubble. Perfect, but not enough, until Sherlock’s lips, still cold from the outside, pressed against his own. John tugged hard on his collar, pulling him closer, and with a gasp, Sherlock opened his mouth. The shift from cold to warm was shocking and wonderful. Teeth, lips, and tongues met in a tangled, awkward, _glorious_ push.

John dove one hand into Sherlock hair. He had longed for the feel of it; the way Sherlock's curls, stiffened by product, would slowly relax under John's fingers until they entwined. His other hand landed on Sherlock’s hip and squeezed, pulling him closer and closer still. With staggering steps, John pulled them both back towards the living room, before spinning around and slamming Sherlock into the wall. He yanked on Sherlock’s belt and pulled it loose, roughly shoving his trousers and pants out of the way.

“Fuck, yes. Oh fuck. Please, please.” At this point, John was no longer sure which one of them was begging for more, though his own skin sang with the need to touch every part of Sherlock and to soak up his scent.

Sherlock’s cock, already half-hard, fit perfectly in John’s hand. It was familiar yet unfamiliar, gorgeous in way that he had forgotten. John stroked him fast. There was no time for lingering, he needed to see Sherlock spent and undone under his hands. Too much time wasted unraveled between them. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face into Sherlock’s groin, panting and shaking with need.

Sweat greeted his nose as he buried his face into the dark curls that surrounded Sherlock’s cock. He mouthed along the base of Sherlock's cock, tongue marking the line where skin disappeared into hair. This was his, wasn’t it? All of it? If he grabbed this chance, it could be again. God, he wanted it to be. He pressed open mouthed kisses across Sherlock’s skin, gently bit at his hips, and savoured the hint of musk that lingered on his tongue and in his nose when he nudged Sherlock’s cock out of the way and simply inhaled. In that smell resided a thousand memories of late nights, of running until his sides ached, of fumbling in the darkness for the feel of Sherlock's skin under his hands. He felt something painful unlock inside him and he dug his nails into Sherlock’s thighs. He missed Sherlock so much that every part of him ached. Even having him here right now only eased the hurt; it didn’t banish it. It was a wound from a different sort of war and it lingered.

Above him, Sherlock made a strangled sound. His hand fluttered across John’s scalp before landing on the back of his head. Not pulling, not insinuating, simply grounding John, but giving John exactly what he needed. John slowly loosened his hold and rubbed his hands over the marks he had made.  The first taste of Sherlock on his tongue hadn't been enough. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, now full and heavy with want, and lapped his tongue across the head of it.

With little hesitation, he pulled Sherlock closer and began to suck. It was a welcome weight against his tongue, stretching his lips and cheeks around it. His jaw gave a brief complaint, but he ignored it, too driven by the sounds coming out of Sherlock above him. There seemed to be little he could do wrong as Sherlock continued his moan-filled litany of praise and his hips shuddered with the need to thrust. His entire body shook under John’s attention and John lavished it upon him. He sped up his hand on Sherlock’s cock, the way eased by spit, and kissed and licked every inch of Sherlock's skin he could put his mouth on. Sherlock let out a shaky breath which turned into a moan. His come hit John’s tongue, arced up his cheek, and across his lips, quickly making a mess of him. John brought a hand to his cheek, spreading the wetness there, and slowly licked his lips. 

“Stay.” Sherlock’s hand tightened against the back of John’s head, then soothed his hair down. “Oh god, stay.”

John leant back, chin spit-slick and mouth still full of Sherlock’s taste, and looked up. Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut and his mouth twisted as if he only just now realized what he had said. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced down at John. A whimper escaped from his throat.

Unable to stand the look on Sherlock’s face any longer, John surged upwards and smashed their mouths together. Sherlock fumbled at John’s clothes and snaked a hand under his shirt. Tremors continued to shake Sherlock's frame, as if his own wound had been opened for John to see. Each of Sherlock’s movements begged for him again and again. John tightened his arms around Sherlock and stilled his trembling. With kisses and love bites, John marked his own mantra across Sherlock’s skin: “Of course. Always.”


End file.
